Trapped
by Han-22x
Summary: Draco Malfoy's had enough, he can't take the pressure anymore. Set in the Half Blood Prince. :
1. Chapter 1

He was desperate - he needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to get away from everything life had thrown at him.

Draco Malfoy was walking down a deserted corridor. He walked quickly, afraid of stopping too long, afraid that his emotions would catch up with him again. Malfoys were never emotional.

Malfoys wore a mask that covered their emotions, disguised their true feelings; their expressions remained expressionless. They remained dignified and distant; and they most definitely didn't cry.

He needed escape; a way out of the life he was living. He couldn't go on much longer; he couldn't live with the constant guilt, the constant fear, and the ongoing battle of consciences inside him. It was tearing him apart.

If only he could end it all.

But he had to do this. He had to carry out this seemingly impossible task. The task that kept him up, worrying, night after night. If not, the Dark Lord would kill his parents, his whole family. His parents did care for him, even if they didn't show it that often; and he couldn't let them be wiped off the earth; all because of him. They were the only people who had ever loved him; the only people who would probably ever love him.

He had no one else; his friends were more like his cronies – people only talked to him because of his surname or wealth.

He thought of his parents now. His father, his idol, locked away in a filthy cell in Azkaban. His mother – how scared she had been when he had told her of his task; she had cried when he had shown her his Dark Mark emblazoned on his skin. He had been excited then; here was a chance to prove himself; to show the world what he was capable of. Reality hadn't sunk in until later.

The Dark Lord would kill him as well if he failed, but Draco didn't really care about that. Death didn't seem that bad, in fact, it seemed like the only method of escape left open to him.

How had he gotten here? How had he come down so much in the world? One moment he was bullying First Years, laughing with fellow Slytherins, strutting around the school, annoying Potter; the next he was crying by himself in the dormitory, refusing to eat - growing thinner and thinner, planning out a task he didn't want to complete.

Draco felt the tears welling up.

_No one must see him cry. Malfoys never cry._

Panicking, he broke into a run, and hurled himself through the nearest door, not caring what was behind it. He couldn't let anyone see him in such a state. He slammed the door behind him, and took a look around.

He was in a girl's bathroom.

A girl's bathroom that had, apparently, not been used for some time. The floor was grimy, mirrors were cracked, cobwebs hung from the corners of the room.

Draco stopped, stood still and listened carefully. There was not a single noise, only the distant dripping of some pipe. He was alone, exactly how he wanted it.

If only Saint Potter and his stay-with-you-until-I-die friends could see the great Draco Malfoy now, reduced to crying alone in a girl's bathroom.

He made his way slowly to the sink, and bowing his head, grasped the sides of it tightly with his hands. His deathly pale hands, so completely inhuman, so flawless, gripped the grimy basin tightly, so tightly his knuckles went white. Draco looked up at his reflection in the cracked, filthy mirror. Is that how dreadful he looked? He looked really ill, half dead. This, he supposed, was a combination of malnutrition, stress, fear, and guilt. His usually immaculate white blonde hair was messed up; strands were falling over his cold grey eyes, which had not a single spark of light left in them. They were dead, lifeless. His complexion was even paler than usual, if that was possible; it was almost grey, with dark bags circling his eyes.

Tears had started to fall, faster and faster, and he brushed away the tears impatiently with his sleeve. Draco took some deep, shuddering breaths, ran his fingers through his hair, and cast his mind to his troubles, hoping that there may be a way out he had previously overlooked.

He knew one thing for sure. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Dumbledore. No matter how much he despised the man, the Muggle-loving fool, he could never murder him in cold blood. But if he didn't kill him, his parents would die as well, his family would all be murdered by the Dark lord without a second thought. He couldn't let that happen, he couldn't have their lives on his conscience.

Death seemed like the only escape.

He reached into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out a small silver knife, which glinted in the candlelight. Draco ran his finger down the blade softly; it was sharp, very sharp. Perfect.

Draco pulled the sleeve of his robe up to his elbow. There it was, the Dark Mark; it contrasted so much with the whiteness of Draco's arm; it was almost painful to look at. Draco had gotten used to the sight of seeing the dreadful mark seared onto his skin, but the memories associated with it were too painful to ever go away. The burning pain on his arm, the jeers of Death Eaters, the cruel smile of the Dark Lord himself.

For the first time, he realised how cold it was in this room, breaths of icy air brushed against his face, causing hairs to stand on end.

Draco held the knife against his white skin, and braced himself for the pain that would surely follow. Could he actually do this? He could almost imagine the blood, deep crimson in contrast to the pale silvery skin, seeping from the wound, staining the sink, dripping onto the floor. The throbbing pain mixed with the curious feeling of relief.

The silver knife hovered there for an eternity, practically no distance between the blade and the skin. His arm was shaking, and he was sobbing; tears streaming down his pale face.

Then, suddenly, Draco hurled the knife across the room, expression furious, with all his might. It hit the wall, and fell onto the cold stone floor, with a clatter. He couldn't do it. He was weak. He couldn't bear the idea of living, but he couldn't bear the idea of dying either.

There was no method of escape. He would have to go through with the plan, bring the Death Eaters into the school – and then kill Dumbledore. He could almost imagine himself whispering the words of that terrible Unforgivable Curse, _Avada Kedavra,_ the curse hitting Dumbledore in the chest, a flash of green light – Dumbledore falling to the floor in a crumpled heap, eyes unseeing.

His conscience burned just at the thought.

But what else could he do?

He could see no other alternative; he was trapped – there was no way out.


	2. Chapter 2

He was back again.

Draco Malfoy kept returning, time and time again, to the deserted girl's bathroom, he seemed to be drawn there. Perhaps it was the fact that it was the only place where he could be truly alone. The only place where he could stop holding his emotions in, where there was no one to taunt him or interrogate him.

Where there was no one to threaten him, hurt him - or murder him.

He still brought the small silver knife with him when he escaped to the bathroom, but still had not brought himself to slash his wrists. The silver blade remained free of bloodstains. However, he did keep running the sharp blade down his flawless, pure white arms, leaving trails of red which lasted a time before disappearing, leaving only faint traces. The pain was minimal, but it was strangely satisfying to see the criss-crossing lines pattern his skin. It was proof that he still had some control over his life.

The time was approaching, he knew it. His pale hands would soon be stained with blood, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was way out of his depth. Whenever he began to shake with fear and guilt, whenever he felt the tears well up in his grey eyes, his parents' faces flashed into his mind. The only people he had left. He couldn't lose them.

He was growing thinner and thinner, he hardly ate anymore. A lack of sleep, combined with malnutrition, had left him scarcely recognisable. His once immaculate white blonde hair was left to fall untidily over his face. His pale skin had become grey. His eyes were constantly red, due to sleep deprivation and endless tears which he hid from everyone apart from his reflection in the cracked mirror.

The Vanishing Cabinet was almost ready; he had almost finished repairing it. He had spent endless hours in the Room of Requirement, at all hours of the day and night, working tirelessly. It had taken all of his skill to fix it, not to mention a great deal of patience, which was a quality all members of the Malfoy family, regrettably, lacked.

He just wanted this mission to be over. He just wanted to things to go back to how they were; when the Dark Lord was just a name whispered at home in reverence by his Father. When the Death Eaters were just a part of his family's rather shady history. When the only worries he had were the results of a Transfiguration test or an upcoming Quidditch match. He wanted everything to be over, and had gone to drastic methods to achieve this. Methods which, looking back on hindsight, were idiotic and careless.

It was supposed to be so simple, bewitch someone to take a cursed necklace to Dumbledore. Dumbledore would be dead instantly, the carrier would not be blamed, and he himself would have been above suspicion. Who would suspect him of having a hand in the headmaster's murder?

He had bought the cursed necklace from Borgin & Burkes in the summer holidays, and had smuggled it into the castle. He had placed Madam Rosmerta under the Imperius Curse, which in itself was a quite a feat, and she in turn had cursed a student to take it to Dumbledore. Nevertheless, the plan failed all because that Bell girl, Katie, had touched the necklace herself. Luckily, she had only brushed it with her skin, and she had not died. She was still at St Mungo's, and in a stable condition, apparently. Despite the fact that she was a Gryffindor, a chaser on a rival Quidditch team, guilt had plagued him for a long time. He had almost caused her death, and the guilt refused to go away.

Desperate, he had then poisoned a bottle of oak-matured mead that fool Slughorn was going to give Dumbledore as a present. He had taken a great risk by stealing the poison from the Potion stores, and lacing the mead with it. It had seemed, at the time, a good plan. Once again, he was sure to be above suspicion. But then Weasley had drunk it instead, he had only been saved because Potter had shoved a bezoar down his throat. Once again he had almost caused the death of another student. Despite being a Weasley, a Blood-Traitor, a friend of Saint Potter, an _enemy_, Draco had still experienced guilt.

Draco splashed himself with ice-cold water, which succeeded in bringing him back to reality. He let the water drip slowly down his face; it was only when he tasted salt on his lips that he realised that the water was mixed with tears as well. He looked up once more into the filthy mirror.

Someone was behind him.

Wildly, he looked around, looking for that student, that interfering somebody who _dared_ sneak up behind him and watch him snivelling like a pathetic first year. How dare they? Couldn't he be left alone for once? He pulled out his wand, ready to hex whoever it was into oblivion.

But it wasn't a student. It was a ghost.

He had never seen this ghost before, he was sure he had never seen her around the castle. The ghost was a girl, a rather short one, with dark, lank hair which partly hid her features. Her eyes were hidden behind large, shining spectacles. She, like him, had tear tracks down her pearly white, slightly transparent face.

"What do you want?"

It was meant to be an accusation, but he said it curiously. Perhaps it was because of her tears, he had sensed that perhaps they had something in common.

The ghost did not reply for a minute or two, she just looked at him searchingly, her eyes magnified by her thick glasses. When she did speak, she didn't answer his question.

"Why are you crying in my bathroom?"

Draco considered the question. Why was he crying alone in a disused girl's bathroom? There were so many reasons, so many contributing factors, but the simplified answer was that he had to commit a murder against his will. And if he didn't –

He suddenly burst into tears, in a most un-Malfoy like fashion. He sank down into a sitting position on the grimy bathroom floor, no longer caring about the indignity of it all, and wept.

After a few minutes, he became aware of what he was doing. Crying, on the floor, in front of a ghost. He jumped up, disgusted at himself, wiping away his tears impatiently with the back of his hand. As he leapt up, the small silver knife fell out of his trouser pocket and landed, with a clatter, on the bathroom floor. The ghost looked at it in shock.

"You haven't -", she whispered.

Draco shook his head furiously. He hadn't cut himself, so he technically he was telling the truth, but he was still glad that his long sleeved shirt covered up the red lines which decorated his arms. No one else was to know about that.

The ghost looked distinctly relieved, and came closer to where he was standing.

"I'm Myrtle. This is _my_ bathroom. Who are you?"

He shook his head again. He preferred to remain anonymous, in case she told anyone else. He couldn't bear it if the whole school found out that he, Draco Malfoy, had been crying. However, he supposed, it didn't really matter if he kept his name from her. His white blonde hair and deathly pale skin were features that not many other students had.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?"

He shook his head vigorously, avoiding looking into her eyes. She spoke again, and her voice was understanding.

"It'll make it, whatever _it_ is, seem better".

If he hadn't been in a state of utter depression, he would have laughed out loud. If only she knew. He doubted that anything could make him feel better.

"I promise I won't tell anyone".

He looked into her ghostly face, and saw that she meant what she said. Perhaps it would help, to talk to someone who wouldn't judge him. Someone who wasn't already biased against him, his house and his family. He ran his fingers through his hair, nodded his head, and started to speak; trying to keep his voice steady.

"He – he's going to kill me, and my family. Unless I kill someone else. I have a plan, but – I don't want to do it -"

With that last sentence, he brought the sleeve of his robes up to his elbow, and showed her the Dark Mark burned into his skin. The horrific tattoo, so dark against such pale skin, surrounded by red lines which had not yet begun to fade.

Myrtle's expression turned from one of understanding, to one of utter horror. As Draco stood there, shaking violently, tears falling down his face, she felt sympathy towards him like she had never felt before towards anyone, and swore to herself that she would try and help him.

But Draco was beyond the reach of any help. Time was running out.


	3. Chapter 3

He'd returned.

Yet again, he had returned to the girl's bathroom, and was standing – yet again – in front of the cracked mirror, staring in despair at his reflection. He was still Draco Malfoy, but his skin was paler, his hair was messier, and he altogether looked completely and utterly drained.

Yet again, he was crying. Tears were rolling down his face, and landing into the dirty basin he was clutching to so tightly. Sobs consumed his frail body, as he trembled – with the cold draught, with fear, or with exhaustion? None knew except himself, and the ghost which haunted that deserted bathroom. Moaning Myrtle stood beside him now, murmuring reassuring words into his ear, trying desperately to help this boy – this boy who was so out of his depth.

"Don't …don't...tell me what's wrong...I can help you..."

"No one can help me - I can't do it...I can't...It won't work...and unless I do it soon...he says he'll kill me..."

So concentrated was he, on his sorrows, he didn't hear the bathroom door creak slowly open behind him.

So concentrated was he, on his predicaments, he didn't hear the soft footfall behind him.

But when he looked up again, when he looked up into the shards of broken glass, he saw the face behind him. Not a ghost's face, but a student's – a boy, wearing an expression of deepest shock. Harry Potter's face.

The two boys stared at each other in shock for a few moments. The boy with the white blonde hair and green tie staring in disbelief into the eyes of the raven-haired boy, wearing the Gryffindor emblem so proudly. Two boys, similar in age, but so different in every other aspect – torn apart by hatred and prejudice. So why weren't they fighting? Grey eyes stared into green ones, both seemed unable to act. Harry was torn between hating this boy, this Slytherin who had done his best to make his life hell, and comforting the broken person standing in front of him. Draco was torn between firing all the curses he knew at the interfering blood traitor, and breaking down there and then – collapsing into Harry's arms.

Draco made up his mind.

He wasn't going to show himself to be even weaker than he already appeared – he wouldn't break down.

He would fight.

Malfoy span around, face contorted in anger, wand in hand. His face was almost wild in fury, his eyes narrowed. That interfering Potter, what couldn't he just leave him alone? Did he enjoy seeing him at his lowest, did he like invading his privacy by watching him weeping in a girls bathrooms?

Malfoy sent a well-aimed hex at Harry, non-verbal of course, but Harry threw himself out of the way at the last minute, and the spell hit a lamp – which consequently exploded, shards of glass flying in every direction. Harry fired a non-verbal spell at him, whilst sheltering behind a basin, but Draco easily blocked it and sent another straight back.

For the next minute, the normally quiet bathroom became a full on war zone. Hexes and curses were being shot in every direction, streaks of light and colour were flashing around the room. Pipes and lamps exploded, basins cracked, and great spurts of water gushed out of gaps, soaking the two battling teenagers. Neither was likely to give up. Both carried the evidence of their fight – Harry had torn clothing and bloody hands, while Draco had a deep gash in his forehead, probably due to the flying pieces of plaster and metal.

The two boys paused for a breath, both sheltering in bathroom stalls, behind walls of splintered wood.

Moaning Myrtle was in hysterics, begging the two boys to stop, flitting from one to the other, imploring them to cease. She was torn between the boy who had always been her favourite and the boy who was completely broken - who she had sworn to help.

No! No! Stop it! Stop! STOP!"

Her warnings were ignored.

Malfoy fired a curse at Harry, missing him by inches, exploding a bin. Harry, slipping on the wet floor, stumbled to a safer position, and whilst doing so – attempted a leg-locker curse on Draco. The curse hit the wall by Draco's right ear, rebounded and smashed into the cistern besides Myrtle, who started shrieking for help, screams echoing round the completely destructed room. Harry, distracted by the amount of noise Myrtle was making, and the sheer volume of water spraying out of the wall, didn't see Malfoy's next attack come.

Malfoy had had enough. He'd had enough of his life, of everyone interfering in it. He had no control over it anymore. He couldn't be normal anymore. He couldn't see his parents. He couldn't be sure whether they'd live or survive. He couldn't make his own decisions. He couldn't decide his own fate.

Now, he couldn't even cry alone, just be alone for a small amount of time.

All because of Potter.

He let his anger take over.

"_Cruci-"_

"_SECTUMSEMPRA!"_

Malfoy had barely anytime to register the fact that he had never come across that spell before, and wonder as to its effects, when he suddenly found himself in excruciating pain. He felt his chest and face rip open and felt warm blood seep through his clothing. It felt as though someone had torn chunks out of his skin. He was in agonising pain. He had been slashed by something, by a knife – something – what had happened, what was going on –

Draco Malfoy staggered backwards, pale hands clutching at the gaping wounds, as red liquid spurted out of his body. He couldn't see anything – all he could see was black – and Potter's face, horrified – he was falling –

He felt himself land on the stone cold floor, the pain causing him to double over. His mouth was full of blood; he could feel it trickle down his chin. Where was his wand – he couldn't move his hand – he couldn't feel his body at all – what was happening? He felt tears escape his eyes – he was in too much pain to scream, he wanted the pain to end.

As Draco Malfoy lay there, drowning in his own pureblood, a curious feeling of relief washed over him. He was dying, he was sure of it. He didn't have to carry on with his life. He didn't have to complete his mission. He could just … go.

He wouldn't have to face Lord Voldemort. He wouldn't have to kill Albus Dumbledore. He could simply go to sleep…

And after that, Draco remembered no more.

---

Draco Malfoy woke up with a start.

It took a minute or two for him to realise where he was, and what he was doing there. He was in the hospital wing, tucked up in a warm bed, dressed in soft pyjamas. But why was he there?

He suddenly remembered the blood, the pain, the slashes...

The fight with Potter in the bathroom.

It all came back to him.

He was alive – he was unbelievably lucky to be here now – but he still had a mission to complete. He had been so close to dying, so close to escaping.

He couldn't escape.

He wished he were dead.

Draco Malfoy brought his knees up to his chest, wincing slightly when he felt the tender wounds on his otherwise flawless skin. He clutched his shaking body, letting his hair hang over his face, and letting the tears stream silently down his skin.

He was still trapped.


End file.
